


Two Tiny Sparks

by Paper_Crane_Song



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Crane_Song/pseuds/Paper_Crane_Song
Summary: Illya faces danger, and Napoleon cannot intervene.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by two things:  
> Firstly, a throwaway line in the TV series that Kuryakin is afraid of dogs. 
> 
> Secondly, this excerpt and how it resonates in the friendship between Kuryakin and Solo:
> 
>  _"And so we sit facing one another...We don't talk much, but we have a greater and more gentle consideration for each other than I should think even lovers do. We are two human beings, two tiny sparks of life; outside there is just the night, and all around us, death…Our hearts are close to one another, and time and place merge into one – the brightness and shadows of our emotions come and go in the flickering light of a gentle fire... Here we are…aware of existence and so close to each other that we can't even talk about it."_  
>  \- From _All Quiet on the Western Front_ by Erich Maria Remarque
> 
> I'd love to know any comments, criticisms or insights you may have.

People tend to assume that I am the calm one. Perhaps it is because, in contrast to him, I speak less, move less, smile less. And this is mistaken as calmness.

Or perhaps it is because I have made it my study to observe those who are not calm; the almost imperceptible gestures of those who are anxious or nervous, gestures such as the tapping of fingers, the touching of the face, fidgeting, the constant motion and the wasting of words – and in observing, I have taught myself to do the contrary. To appear calm in the face of danger, and to hide any indicators of fear. As I am doing now.

But it is all an act.

Napoleon is the calm one.

Outwardly he is exuberant, a maelstrom of charm and energy, but inwardly he is still, at peace with himself and the world around him. 'The real deal', as my American colleagues would say.

And when I am with him, his calmness covers me and wraps itself around me. I would never tell him so, but sometimes when we are together, side by side on a stake-out or trapped by some Thrush machinations, it almost feels as if my heartbeat is slowing down to match his.

So when I see his face, arriving to spring me from the dark cave where I have allowed myself to be placed as prisoner -

("Room service," he says with a grin)

\- I am able to make some appropriate retort

_("What took you so long?" or "Borscht, and keep it coming")_

because he is here, and I can afford to relax a little.

"You all right?" he says, his critical eye scouring my body and face.

"They're superficial," I reply, putting on my jacket. "I am fine."

"Good, because there's been a change of plan. Anders was discovered, so you're to stay put like a good little UNCLE agent and hold our friends' attention long enough for me to get the blueprints."

As I said before, I pride myself on my ability to conceal my emotions, but something in my expression must give me away, because Napoleon does a double take.

"What's wrong?" He is concerned, and it is all directed at me, and it is almost unbearable. I turn away from him, and I shrug off my jacket to deflect his attention.

"Nothing. You need the passcode for the silo?"

"I've got it, Anders radioed in before he was shot." Napoleon is still watching me. "Illya," he says, and underneath I know he means, _"Illya, we're partners, come on, talk to me, tell me why you're upset."_

And I want to reply, _"I'm not upset, I'm an UNCLE agent for goodness sake, now let us dispense with the melodrama and finish this mission, I'm beginning to get a headache."_

But that would be a lie, because he knows me, he knows every turn of my voice and every micro-expression in my face.

In all my life I never imagined I would be so known by another person, and that this person would be him.

And so I meet his eyes and say, "They are going to put me in the dog pit."

I do not need to explain myself further. I know that he understands. He keeps looking at me, and now he is frowning. "When?"

"Soon."

A pause. "I'll give you my gun," and now I cannot help but smile in exasperation because Napoleon's heart usually leads first whilst his mind catches up afterwards, and it is infuriating and yet so typically _him_.

"No, they'll know I had outside help and your cover would be blown."

I can see his distress for me, and I wish I had not said anything. In an effort to reassure him, I say, "I'll be fine. I'll find a big stick."

Napoleon's emotions are so transparent, I wonder how he ever made it through Survival School.

Or perhaps it is that he is only transparent to me. As I am to him.

"Look," I say, "the sooner you finish the mission, the sooner I can leave."

He nods, but he does not say anything. That is fine, I do not need him to say anything. Sometimes I think that he and I have grown so close that we have transcended words.

When he leaves, I do not feel alone. His presence lingers and fills up the cave, helping to calm my mind, enough so that when I hear the barking I start searching the cave for a really _big_ stick.

_Finis_


End file.
